Thea close behind, Cait proceeded down the corridor, drawing a deep breath to calm herself. It was going better than she had hoped, but an instant's carelessness would ruin everything. They passed several doors, and heard coarse singing emanating from behind one of them; from behind another came a loud crash followed by raucous laughter and stamping feet.

So, the local gossip is true, she thought. The Franks sleep when they should work, eat when they should sleep, and roister when they should pray. They rarely wash, talk too loud, blow their noses on their clothing, and rut like pigs.

As they approached the sixth door, Alethea squeezed Cait's hand. 'Someone is coming!' she whispered.

Caitriona looked quickly down to the far end of the corridor where a figure had just appeared in the passageway. As the figure approached she saw the tray of cups in her hand. 'It is just a serving girl/

She waited until the girl drew near and paused at the sixth door, whereupon Cait approached her quickly and asked whether the cups and jar were bound for the commander's chamber. 'Indeed, my lady,' replied the girl.

'Leave it with me,' said Cait, taking the tray from her. 'We were just about to join him. You may go.'

The girl looked at the two women, and then surrendered to their unarguably superior rank. She delivered the tray with a tight bow, and retreated quickly the way she had come. As soon as the girl was gone, Cait laid the tray on the floor; she quickly shrugged off her costly mantle and handed it to her sister; next, she removed the dagger from its sheath at her side and tucked it into her girdle at the back so that it would be out of sight, yet ready to hand.

'What are you doing?' asked Alethea, eyeing the dagger,

'I told you. I have to talk to someone.' Cait picked up the tray. 'Stay here and keep watch. Knock on the door if anyone should come.'

Alethea made to protest, but Cait's raised eyebrow persuaded her to hold her tongue. Glancing nervously both ways along the corridor, she said, 'Hurry, then.'

Balancing the tray with one hand, Cait reached for the latch and, taking a deep steadying breath to calm her pounding heart, pushed the door open and stepped quickly inside.

The room was large and dark, and opened on to a smaller inner chamber which in turned opened on to a balcony overlooking a garden court. The double doors separating the rooms were thrown wide, and two men were sitting at a small round table on the balcony, enjoying the soft evening air. Even by fitful torchlight, she recognized the broad shoulders and untidy mane of white hair belonging to Renaud de Bracineaux. With a glance at Alethea, who made a last anxious plea to hurry, Cait closed the door behind her and stepped inside.

At the sound of the door closing, Commander de Bracineaux called, 'Here, girl.'

Steadying the tray, she moved through the darkened room towards the balcony. De Bracineaux's back was to her, and the other man-a younger fellow with a large, beak-like nose, fair, straight hair and a fine, silky wisp of a beard-was leaning on the table with his arms crossed. Neither man was armed, and both were deep in conversation. A quick strike from behind, and she would be gone again before the Templar knew what had happened.

'Think what it is worth,' de Bracineaux was saying.

'More than I can imagine,' the fair-haired one replied. 'I should think the pope will give you anything you want. The reward will be yours to name.'

'Ha!' de Bracineaux sneered. 'If you think that conniving old lecher is going to get his poxy hands on it, then you, my friend, are an even bigger ass than his high holiness.'

One step, and another, and she would be in position. Before she could reach the table, however, the second man looked up. 'I have not seen you before,' he said, rising abruptly.

Cait halted.

'Let me help you with that heavy thing/ He grinned and stepped towards her, but the Templar grabbed his arm and pulled him back to his chair. 'Sit down, d'Anjou,' he growled. 'Plenty of time for that later.'

The younger man lowered himself to his seat again, and Cait proceeded to the table, remaining behind de Bracineaux and out of his sight. She placed the tray on the table, and made to step away, her right hand reaching for the hilt of the slender dagger at her back.

As her fingers tightened on the braided grip, the Templar cast a hasty glance over his shoulder. She saw his lowered brow and the set of his jaw, and feared the worst.

Silently, she slipped the dagger from its sheath, ready to strike. But the light of recognition failed to illumine his eyes. 'Well?' he demanded. 'Get to your work, now. Light the lamps and leave us.'

Cait hesitated, waiting for him to settle back in his chair. When she did not move, the Templar turned on her. 'Do as I say, girl, and be quick about it!'

Startled, Cait stepped back a pace, almost losing her grip on the weapon.

'Peace, Renaud,' said his companion. Reaching out, he took the Templar's sleeve and tugged him around. 'Come, I have poured the wine.' He raised his cup and took a long, deep draught.

De Bracineaux swung back to the table, picked up his cup and, tilting his head back, let the wine run down his gullet. Now! thought Cait, rising on to the balls of her feet. Do it now!

Her hand freed the knife and she moved forward. At that instant, without warning, the door burst open and a thick-set, bull-necked Templar strode into the room behind her. Cait whipped the dagger out of sight, and backed away.

'Ah, here is Gislebert now!' said d'Anjou loudly.

The Templar paused as he passed, regarding Cait with dull suspicion. She ducked her head humbly, and quickly retreated into the darkened room.

'Come, sergeant,' called the fair-haired man, 'raise a cup and give us the good news. Are we away to Jerusalem at last?'

'My lord, baron,' said Gislebert, turning his attention to the others. 'Good to see you, sir. You had a pleasant journey, I trust.’

As the men began talking once more, Cait was forgotten-her chance ruined. She might cut one or even two men before they could react, but never three. And the sergeant was armed.

Still, she was close. The opportunity might never come again.

Reluctant to give up, she busied herself in the adjoining room, steeling herself for another attempt. Fetching some straw from the corner of the hearth, she stooped and lit it from the pile of embers. There was a lamp on the table, two candles in a double sconce on the wall by the bed, and a candletree in the corner. She lit the candles first, taking her time, hoping that Gislebert would leave.

She moved to the table and, as she touched the last of the straw to the lamp wick, became aware that someone was watching her from the doorway. Fearing she had been discovered at last, she took a deep breath, steadied herself and cast a furtive glance over her shoulder.

She did not see him at first. Her eyes went to the men who were still at the table on the balcony, cups in hand, their voices a murmur of intimate conversation. They were no longer heeding her. But, as she bent once more to the task at hand, she caught a movement in a darkened corner of the room and turned just as a man stepped from the shadows.

She stifled a gasp.

Dressed in the long white robe of a priest, he held up his hand, palm outward in an attitude of blessing-or to hold her in her place. Perhaps both, she thought. A man of youthful appearance, his hair and beard were black without a trace of grey and the curls clipped like the shorn pelt of a sheep. His eyes, though set deep beneath a dark and heavy brow, were bright and his glance was keen. He stepped forward into the doorway, placing himself between Cait and the men.